PERSIAN PICTURES 




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Persian Pictures 

BY ^ 

MARY FLEMING LABAREE 






New York Chicago 

Fleming H. Revell Company 

London and Edinburgh 



Copyright, 1920, by 

FLEMING H. REV ELL COMPANY 



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Printed in United States of America 



S)CU601526 



New York: 158 Fifth Avenue 
Chicago: 17 North Wabash Ave. 

NOV 1 1 1920 



FOREWORD 

OF all the tragic uprootings of the Great War years, 
none has been more tragic than the uprooting in 
the fertile little plain of Urumia, Persia. 

I have two human means of comfort in my sorrow. 
One is the hope of the larger life to be lived and the 
larger service to be rendered by Urumia in days to 
come. The other is to picture the pre-war days with 
their background of open plain, caravan and motley 
herd, fruit gardens, vineyards and grain-blest foothills, 
snowcapped peaks and great blue lake. 

Yet even so I cannot blot from my memory the pain- 
ful tales poured into my ears by haggard refugees. Nor 
can I forget the crumbling heaps of adobe that once 
sheltered those I loved. 

After God's healing, my real solace is the hope that 
I may have a tiny share in the upbuilding of the new 
age in Persia, as I was privileged to have had in the old 
era and early war days, from 1904-1916. 

My little sketches are, I believe, faithful to history, 
tradition, custom and atmosphere in Urumia and Tab- 
riz. I have not attempted a complete set of pictures, 
but I trust that the true Persian color may be sensed and 
the years of suffering realized by those who read. 

M. F. L. 
Lincoln University, Pa. 
1920 



To 

R. M. L. 



CONTENTS 

Village Life 11 

In Tabriz 21 

War Time 31 

Caravan Songs 67 



GLOSSARY 

Beg — Kurdish title 

Bey — Turkish title 

bushalla — sour milk soup 

caravan serai — inn 

chinar — plane tree 

farsakh — Modern Persian^ 2% miles 

farsang — Old Persian for farsakh 

feitun — victoria, used with raised hood when occupied by ladies 

fourgon — Russian wagon, like a prairie schooner 

Hakim Sahib — Foreign Doctor 

Iran — Persia 

Irani — Persiari 

Ibn Sina — Avicenna 

kabob — meat roasted on a spit 

Kaloo — bride (daughter-in-law or young married woman) 

Kassids — messengers 

Khan — nobleman, inn 

Khanum — lady 

Kheltu Sota — Old Auntie 

Layli and Majnun — classical lovers of the Near East 

Malik — headman of a village or group of villages 

Moujik — Russian peasant 

Nizaam — Persian title 

Pood — Russian^ 36 lbs. 

Sirdar — Persian title 

tandur — fire pit used for cooking and heating 

tar — Persian miisical instrument 

verst — Russian, 2/3 mile 

The ram's horn is used in religious processions during 
Moharrem, the month of mourning for the Moslem saints. 



Village Life 



PERSIAN PICTURES 11 



AT THE SPRING 

WHERE the gentle spring flows down 
Into the waiting pool, 
Gather the village women, 

The girls, the boys and the fool. 
And the men on their way to the harvest field, 
While yet the day is cool. 

The women and girls bear water jars. 

The boys bring the big eyed calf, 

And the knobby dusty buffaloes 

For their long blissful bath. 

The mare and her rider quench their thirst. 

And the fool ? Oh, he makes them laugh ! 



MILKING TIME 

IN the dappled willow shadow. 
By the cooling stream, 
Kheltu Sota, rosy Kaloo 

Gossip, knit and dream; 
Till the flock pours down the mountain, 

In dust dies the dream. 
And they fill the foaming milk pots. 
By the cooling stream. 



12 PERSIAN PICTURES 



AT SET OF SUN 

AT set of sun^ tall shepherd, eager dog 
Conduct their dark brood down the mountain side. 
They linger near the willows by the stream, 

Till sheep and goats are claimed by waiting brides. 

The women and girls with thirsty bulging jars 

Slung from their shoulders, gather at the spring. 

What bright eyed laughter, interplay of wit! 

The gloaming would unfold its shadowy wings. 

And now the sun-worn village men return 

With wearied oxen, from the threshing floor. 

The evening star, a candle in God's hand, 

Lights up steep paths to many an unbarred door. 

They eat their bread and curds and climb to the roof, 
To rest until white dawn nears red sunrise: 

Lulled with the song of watchmen by the wheat, 
The glory of heaven breathing on their eyes. 



DOLI 

THE pour of a sun-quickened day 
Is on gold wheat fields that to gardens stray, 
Walled fruit to vineyard, mud village, blue lake 

And the marvellous meaning that is at stake 
In the curve of the rounding rhythmical shore 
Of bay on bay, forevermore. 



VILLAGELIFE 13 



A SCENE IN RESHIKAN 

WE dreamed along through the hot, bright days. 
(With a plunge in the sapphire lake.) 
Till the cool of night slid over the hills, 
And the stars began to wake. 

But one day a rumble and roll were heard, 

And the trample of stallions fine: 
A Khanum veiled in a feitun, came, 

Servants galloping front and behind. 

The village men quickly turned away. 

For a lady's face may not be seen. 

She rested en route to her country seat. 
By the willows grey and green. 

A courteous whitebeard gently came. 

And proffered profound salaams. 
And told her he had been headman once, 

For her father the noble Nizaam. 

Then off they dashed at a madcap pace, 

And we strolled back to our tea; 
While the women squatted down in the dust, 

And talked of the wonderful She, 



U PERSIAN PICTURES 

EVEN SONG 

COME, seek the roof beneath the stars — 
The day was so intolerably bright. 
We need the touch of heaven sent winds, 
We need the solace of the night. 

Come, sit and dream here, with the stars — 

They are so near to us on summer eves. 

Let us forget the blinding threshing floor. 

The oxen treading out the scattered sheave*. 



Now we will sleep among the stars — 

And the wild watchdogs call us not to fight. 
We need the healing touch of heaven sent winds. 

We need the mighty solace of the night! 



IN THE VINEYARD 

I tiptoe down between straight vineyard hills, 
In search for treasure 'neath the broad leaf rims. 
I find my jewel globes, all delicately hid — 

A very Christmas tree turned outside in. 

And shall I sip their nectar, or gaze off 

To quaff the mightier draught of burnished vine 
Flash rank on rank across the patient plain 

To sheltering poplars, sapphire heaven ashine? 



VILLAGELIFE 15 



THE HERD BOYS 

THE wide blue sky, the dewy plain, 
The jocund morning sun 
Call out the singing village boys 
To bring their cattle dun. 
Buffaloes, donkeys, goats and mares. 
Before the heat's begun. 

A clump of grapes from the vineyard, 

A thin bread as they run — 
And they are lords of all the plain, 
Until the day is done. 



THE THRESHING FLOOR 

ROUND and round, the oxen slow 
Trample out the goodly grain; 
Up and up the winnowers toss 

The chaff — wheat falls like rain. 

Grow the hard won golden heaps. 

Some for Master some for Man; 

P 't the Kurds will come at nightfall. 
Take all — if they can. 



16 PERSIAN PICTURES 



THE BRIDE COMES 

(Kaloo Teela) 

The Mountaineer's Bride 

By the black stream down in the canyon floor, 

Where grey terraced stone huts lurch, 

At sunrise the pale girl bride is led 

To the death-damp ancient church. 

After hours of prayer and snuffled chant, 

Both priest and deacon are paid. 

As the bride and groom stoop through the door, 

Salute! The bride's fusilade! 

Tdoombala tdoombala, 
Kaloo teela! 

The Plainsman's Bride 

Under veil of red and gold are tears, 
Grey heart 'neath purple plush sack, 
Under blue silk skirt, reluctant feet 
March on to the church, alack ! 
The bride and her lord, and village throng 
Seek the wedding feast — 'tis noon. 
Old drum and fife cries fillip the feet. 
Today, they have just one tune — 
Tdoombala tdoombala, 
Kaloo teela ! 

The Nobleman's Bride 

Beneath the star-wrought purple skies, 
(As soft as her satin gown) 



VILLAGELIFE 17 

The bride is borne to her bridegroom strange, 
Through the tangled sleeping town. 
A regiment bluff of soldier lads 
In their guns bear candle stars, 
A regiment grave of servants bear 
Heaped chests and trays. "Hahardar!" 
Tdoombala tdoombala, 
Kaloo teela! 

A SONG OF THE PLAIN 

UNBROKEN yet blue as an ancient tile, 
Long farsaks, the Persian sky 
Spans all the silent sunburnt plain. 

A grey Cossack flashes by 
The motley village herd that seems 

To pasture all alone. 
But — No! Some little herd boys sleep 
On pillows, Bethel stones. 

SPRING IN URMI 

UP from Arabia flies the grave stork 
To nest in the stately chinar. 
The bullfrogs of Urmi are many and sweet — 
He steers by their chorus from far. 

The iris has come and sung to the hills 

Its delicate lavender hues. 
A ragged young scamp has brought me a clump. 

I send it to you, and to you! 



J8 PERSIAN PICTURES 



THE CASTLE OF ISMAIL AGHA 

I'SMAIL AGHA'S castle crowns 
A tall stern rocky gate — 
A gorge to ancient Kurdistan, — 

Forgot, it guards and waits. 

Before it's weathered walls half curve 
Grey rock hewn seats that look 

To altar place and rising sun. 
As writ in Parsee books. 

(Ismail, brigand chief, stood here 
To search the open plain 

For overladen caravans 

And princelings with rich trains.) 

A cell is carved out in the peak. 

A Syrian monk age-wise, 
Here prayed and fasted, scourged his soul, 

Long since to Paradise. 

Hard by the foot of the mountain 
Yet awed to due restraint, 

A brick and plaster sacred tomb 
Contains a Sunni saint. 

The red cheeked girls on the foothills 
Bear tall jars to the stream, 

Care not that Magian, Christian, Kurd, 
Here found God more than dream. 



In Tabriz 



19 



INTABRIZ 21 

THE ARK 

The Ancient Citadel Of Tabriz 

As we come up the Julfa Road, 

The Ark looms first from the plain. 

To speak the might of ancient days 

That have passed — nor come again. 

I. 

THE Ark would lord it over the plain, 
Defy the mountain red: 
The might of man dare the might of God, 
Forget how it was bred. 

The old Ark lords it over the web 

Of domed mosque, bath, bazaar, 

The flat hut of the water carrier. 
The Prince's palace far. 

II. 

The towering giant of builded brick. 

Mocks his guards as they come and go. 

"You're gone in a flash of little years, 
I live by the centuries. Lo ! 

"I received my sentinel orders 

From Ali Shah, Jelan. 
I have kept my watch through many a reign 

Of Shah and Prince and Khan. 



22 PERSIAN PICTURES 

"How earthquake, famine and pestilence 

Have slaughtered crushed and bereaved ! 

Mad Turkoman, Osmanli have raged 
Yet my watch is not relieved. 

"You guard me? Impotent creature, 

I guard you, I've guarded your sires, 

I'll guard the unborn babes of your babes. 
Until come the Judgment fires. 

"The governor, merchant and porter 

Give thanks for the shade I afford; 

The leper, the prophet's son, son of the king 
Are all my puny wards." 

III. 

"Now wedding torches glimmer 

Like fireflies in the streets — 

Now, slow-borne biers are emptied 

In rough graves near my feet. 

"It's 'May your New Year Feast be blest,* 
In laughing spring of year; 

Then wail the ram's horns for the saints — 
Gashed heads, wild cries, old tears. 

"I look across to the sparkling lake, 
Green Urmi and Kurdistan, 

And follow the road to Maragha, 
The seat of Hulaku Khan, 



INTABRIZ 23 

"I could peer into the hot cramped yards 

Of cobblers and fellaheen, 
See rainbow ladies cull bright rose blooms 

In spacious gardens of green. 

"The Heir Apparent is peshwazed in — 

The roofs teem with crones and girls, 

Rugs cover the walls and long-coat scribes 

Rub priestling and lordling and churl. 

"Gay arches, a gold lace Prince, barouche. 

Sleek, milky white, pink-tailed steeds, 

Cerulean lackies, bottle-green guards — 
A lordly chamberlain leads." 



IV. 



"I dare not gaze on our broken mosque. 

Once dreamed to the praise of God. 

Its glory of dome and blue faience 
Is turning to common clod. 

"The earthquake shook down its symmetry. 

Time's hand heals not vital wounds. 
Save human hands and warm mortal hearts 

Unite to bind up the wounds. 

"The good men who looked toward Mecca, 
In this precious place of prayer, 

Were buried beneath their earthen walls, 

Could not show God that they care. 



24 PERSIAN PICTURES 

"How would Jehan Shah tear at his beard 
And beat on his burning breast, 

To enter the marred great portal door 
And see the poor ruined nest 

"Of his high pride and fierce hope of heaven, 
His hunger of endless fame, 

Bereft of its polished patterned blue, 
Its splendor an echoed name. 

"Alas for that builded wonder! 

Alas for that sapphire calm 
Of perfect dome and stately arch. 

Our turquoise of all Islam !" 



V. 



"Why babble I like a dervish thing? 

King's honor is mine, long since, 
Azerbaijan belongs to the Shah, 

Tabriz is seat of his Prince. 

"The old Vizir bade me stand watch 

For foes that would march or lurk. 

I halt botli traitor and democrat, 

I challenge Russian and Turk. 

"Ancient Door of the Kingdom, 

Pinnacle of Islam, 
Thou shalt not pass to strangers — 

I swear by each Imam!" 



INTABRIZ 25 



Far far out on the Julfa Road, 

The Ark calls back the eye. 

To shotv the mouldered might of kings. 

Who had like slaves to die. 



A TABRIZ ROOF SONG 

I climb up to the roof, 
My ladder to the skies, 
And I forget the wedding fife 

And drum and children's cries. 

The roof is girt with space, 

Calm stars, swift meteor lights; 
I hear Sahend and Ararat 

Salaam across the night. 

But up on their lone hill. 

Within their shrine, aloof. 

Poor Ain and Zain, the holy ones. 
Climb not their waiting roof. 



26 PERSIAN PICTURES 



THE TABRIZ BAZAAR 

IN cool bazaars far vaulted dim, 
I find old dervish runes. 
Tales redolent of spice, hahoh. 

Bright hammered copper tunes. 

The goldsmith and the silversmith 
With turquoise and filigree, 

Toil back in dingy cubby-holes, 

While 'prentice boys fetch them tea. 

I catch a cheery tap, tap, tap, 

Where slippers wink in rows — 

Gay apple-green, clear yellow, red. 

Free heels and curled up toes. 

The flash of tin and whiff of wood ! 

Great trays of sweets and seeds ! 
The merchant kneels as piously 

As High Priest, with his beads. 

The bubble of the water pipe 

And clink of small tea glasses 

Come mixed with cries of muleteers 
The patter of grey asses. 

A thunder! Gallop of Cossacks! 

A coachman cries "Make way!" 
A lord rides out with his lackies, 

Black-shrouded women stray. 



INTABRIZ 2T 

An archway painted green and red! 

A caravan unloads — 
A jumble of bales and camels, 

Cloaked camel men, merchants robed.^ 

The high domed rug bazaar is tuned 

To a stately mellow measure. 
Here Ferakhan and Hamadan 

Have heaped and hung their treasure. 

l'envoi 

O wizardry 
Of old Tabriz ! 

Thou breath'st on 

Mingled men, 

On caravan and arch and court, 
Musk, brazier glow, strange din. 
On vaulted, shadowed ways flung far. 

And, Lo ! A magical BAZAAR ! 



28 PERSIAN PICTURES 



THE ETERNAL SONG 

THE chant of the wandering bazaar, 
Is muted in my heart, 
I find the song eternal 

In the music of the mart. 

I hear no more the hammer lilts 

And tea house jargonry, 
Nor sketch long profiles, low bent backs, 

And ripe rug mystery. 

True, caravans from old Baghdad, 

Still bring tales, cloth of gold. 

From Al Raschid to Nasr-ud-Din, 

Grave, magical, comical, bold. 

The fourgons from the Aras, 

Bring songs of Russian Nights — 

Of Moscow mills, Caucasian feuds. 
Mad moujiks, Cossak fights. 

But, down beneath these surface themes, 
Throbs out the eternal song 

Of souls that march and seek and search. 

They'll find — though the road be long! 



War Time 



29 



WARTIME 31 



THE NIGHTINGALE IN THE COLLEGE 
COMPOUND 

June 1914 

WHITE pillars silvered by the clear moonbeams, 
Were lost in leafy groining overhead. 
The lofty nave was waiting to be led 
In worship. 

When from the fastness of a hidden shrine. 
There came a melody rapt and divine. 
The silence of the listening night 
To bless. 

God's benison of peace in joy and pain, 
Ecstatic moon — bright threnodies contained. 
What litanies of longing, they had fain 
Revealed! 

Or was it prophecy, that we might know 
How soon that place of peace would overflow 
With wounds of anguished refugees 
To heal? 



32 PERSIAN PICTURES 



IN THE CITY YARDS 

THEY were harried, they were hounded, 
They fell, ran, hid, and crawled; 
But fifteen thousand found a place 
Within mud mission walls. 

They came with torn and frozen feet. 
And brains that reeled with fear. 

They came with sorrow-strangled hearts. 
Too dazed, too spent for tears. 

The Kurds raged at the sheltering flag 
And cursed the big barred gate. 

The stricken crowds begged God's good might- 
He stayed the cries of hate. 

A five months' weary vigil 

Was kept with bated breath. 
With filth and typhus, hunger, dread. 

With prayer and birth and death. 



A SONG FOR THE DAUGHTERS 

THE fathers are bowed and the mothers weep. 
But not for the dear new dead. 
Who rest in the Paradise of God, 

Beyond all torture and dread. 



WAR TIME 33 

The heart-break and the mourning cry, 

Now spring from a deeper pain — 
For the daughters in wild impious hands, 
Who have gone — nor come again. 



THE DAY OF BLOOD IN KURDISTAN 

I stood upon St. Mary's rock, 
Above the Zab's jade flow, 
And saw where Christ's little flock was flung. 
Not too many years ago. 

There, I sang a song of thanksgiving, 

From the sacred rock to the sky. 

That Badir Khan's cubs had not suckled his hate, 
That the Day of Blood had gone by. 

Yet now in those mountain valleys, 

The Day of Blood has tolled, 
And His flock hemmed in by peak and hate, 

Fight for their babes and folds. 

I wait for the breathless messenger. 

What tidings will he bring? 
May some be left to bear his name. 

When the last death cry rings! 



34 PERSIAN PICTURES 



THE LEADERS OF THE ARMY 

THE Sirdar learned of the cunning fox, 
His sword was the sword of Orion. 
The Malik was swift as the Zab at flood, 
His heart was the heart of a lion. 



THE LITTLE SYRIAN ARMY 

THE men from stern high 
Mountain valleys stood 
With men of border plains, 
As bold men should. 

They fought like ancient Rustem caught at bay — 
The khaki army came not, God spoke not. 

One month in fourteen battles they won life, 

And in those fourteen battles they won death. 

The men from stern high 

Mountain valleys, stood 
With men of border plains, 

As bold men should. 



WARTIME 36 

THE WINTER FLIGHT TO RUSSIA 

THE hurrying multitudes flee from the sword 
Of the hate-fed bands of the Prophet's horde. 
With bleeding feet, they stumble along, 
Crying unto the Lord. 

And out from the throng all harried by fear, 

Fall the old, babes, mothers too spent for tears. 

Their souls flutter up to His hand so near, 
Up to the hand of the Lord. 

At night, they drop on the mud and snow. 

Who will be left to arise and go, 
When the pale dawn light begins to show? 

Who will be left, Lord? 



A WINTER DIRGE 

IT was cold and barren winter. 
When surged a black spring flood, 
To hunt and crush, and fatten 

Upon our bread and blood. 

If it had been golden summer. 

The dead had not lain near and far. 
On the road that leads from Urmi 

Up to the land of the Czar. 



If it had been golden summer. 

The gaunt, huddled refugees 



36 PERSIAN PICTURES 

Had poured from foul rooms to roof and yard, 
Not fallen like autumn leaves. 

If it had been golden summer, 

Our babes had hid in the grain, 

And more had escaped tjie dagger 

And the sharper captive pain. 

If it had been golden summer. 

Our daughters to vineyards had fled, 
And safe in the deep dug, leaf-thatched rows, 

Not drunk of the shame and dread. 

It was cold and barren winter. 

When our men and boys, on the hill. 
Tied arm to arm, by their fathers' graves, 

Fell. And they lie there still. 



HAKIM SAHIB TO THE RESCUE 

THE church became a fortress. 
The fortress knew black fear. 
Our cartridges were at an end, 

We knew our end was near. 

God sent the Hakim Sahib, 

While shots flew fast and grim. 
He found the Kurdish chieftain, 
And parleyed long with him. 



WARTIME 37 



He begged our lives in mercy, 

He would not be denied. 

And so we won a respite, 

And saved our babes and brides. 

He led us to the city, 

Past hungry enemies. 
We entered a broad gateway — 

Our hearts were on their knees. 



THE SUMMER FLIGHT TO THE SOUTH 

FARSANG after farsang, 
Weary verst on verst, 
We plodded through the withering dust, 
With hearts that almost burst. 

But Turks were in the offing, 

The Kurds we had learned too well. 
The villagers along the way, 

Knew how to steal and fell. 

Many stumbled to their knees. 

Or tumbled still and stark. 
And others lay with fluttering lips — 

They haunt me in the dark. 



38 PERSIAN PICTURES 



THE VILLAGE HEADMAN 



THE winter winds charged furiously 
Against the great square old adobe house. 
The walls were thick^ and firm as a fort, 
They were reared to stand, underbuilt with stone. 
He led us into the house. It was dark. 
At first I could see only darkness there. 
I thought I must be in a time-wrought cave, 
Deep down in the heart of the earth. 
Then, I began to find dim forms — 
Huge wooden flour bins and burly jars, 
Red wrinkled grapes from rafters hung. 
(Like grapes of Askelon!) 

The white-beard host said, bowing low, 
"Please mount the platform where we live!" 

I cannot remember the different kinds 
Of meat and rice and milk foods white. 
I can remember each gestured grace. 
The dignity of the old bronzed face. 
My tear-bottle treasures the attar bright 
Of our friend's high courtesy. 



WARTIME 39 



II. 

The Headman's stately body lies quite still, 
Asleep in his hard grave upon the hill, 
Beyond the village toward the sunset gold 
Of New Jerusalem dreamed in days of old. 
I'm glad he did jiot have to live to see 
His sons' and grandsons' red death tragedy, 
His brides and grand babes dree their dree 
Upon the stony way to Calvary ! 



I KNOW 

I know a cool, green mossy way 
That leads to the forest's heart. 
I know a smooth, white ribboned pike, 
Where autos flash and dart. 

I know a road that lingers by 
The sapphire of a lake: 

And near it I have found a trail 

That peak- and sky-folk take. 

I know a highway in Iran, 

Which is new stained with red. 
There, I must step with washen feet, 

And tears and angel-led. 



40 PERSIAN PICTURES 



THE REFUGEE 

A gully black, 
A black, black night, 
A cart, a dying man, 
A sleeping child, a woman white 
Watching for the grey dawn light. 

A wagon left by fleeing folk. 
Is fired and by its glow. 
The vigil-keeper leans to hold 
In leash the tugging soul. 

(Till messengers return, 
The life must burn!) 

"Speed Kassids, speed, 

As speed you may. 

To the kind British camp ! 

Quick! Bring the light of love and skill! 

There is no moon — a lamp!" 

They pierce the blackness, loving haste 
Is all too late, this night, 

And tender vigil cannot stay 

The soul of him this night, 

Who would go out to meet his God, 
Over the sky ways bright. 



WARTIME 41 

Above the gully black, 
Above the black, black night, 
Above the cart, the wearied form, 
The child, the woman white. 



BETWEEN URUMIA AND SAIN KALA 

FRIEND, we are done with dying, 
Now we drop down to die. 
We are wearied of this long dying, 
My little ones and I. 

The cruel sun was enough to kill. 

How the hunger wolves can tear ! 
The drowning dust and madhouse thirst. 

The curse, shriek, groan and prayer ! ! 

If only the kindly dagger 

Had torn our burdened breasts. 
We had long since, on downy stones. 

Found our paradise of rest. 

Friend, we are done with dying, 

Now we drop down and die. 

We are wearied of this . . . long . . . dying, 
My little . . . ones . . . and ... I. 



42 PERSIAN PICTURES 



A LAMENT FOR THE PATRIARCH 



I 



N the vigor of his manhood, 
Our Patriarch is gone! 



In the prime of a ripening wisdom, 
Who knew no fear is gone! 

In the old days of peace, he sat 

At the head of his judgment hall, 

To mete out a kindly justice 

To our men from Dizza to Chal. 

In the vigor of his manhood, 
The Head of our House is gone! 

In the prime of a ripening wisdom, 
The Pillar of our House is gone ! 

They climbed by pass and precipice, 
By canyon and foaming ford, 

To bring their tithes and wrongs to him, 
Their Father in the Lord. 

In the vigor of his manhood, 
Our noble Judge is gone! 

In the prime of a ripening wisdom, 
Who righted our wrongs is gone! 



WARTIME 43 

And when the Turk and Kurd ringed in 

His flock with rifle and gun, 
He dared the bitter bloody way 

To the plains of the Lion and Sun. 

In the vigor of his manhood, 
Our Captain and Chief is gone! 

In the prime of a ripening wisdom, 
Our fearless Leader is gone! 

After long months of hunger, 

Nakedness, fever and strife, 
A pact was made — a pact of peace — 

Were we again to know life? 

In the vigor of his manhood. 
Our tireless Shepherd is gone! 

In the prime of a ripening wisdom. 
With his martyred flock he is gone ! 

The pact was made, — and he was guest 
Of a chieftain with honeyed breath. 

Who, brotherly, gave him a solemn kiss. 
Then — gave the signal of death. 

In the vigor of his manhood, 
The Head of our Nation is gone! 

In the prime of a ripening wisdom, 
With his bodyguard, he is gone! 



44 PERSIAN PICTURES 

In the vigor of his manhood, 
Our Patriarch is gone! 

In the prime of a ripening wisdom, 
He whom we loved is gone ! 



SPRING IN URMI 

BUSHALLA herbs peep over the plain. 
Crocus and iris call, 
The stork has come from Araby 

To nest in the plane tree tall. 

But- 
Gone are the visions of other springs. 

Buffaloes ploughing for wheat, 
Pruning in the vineyards. 

New dropped lambs ableat. 

Hunger wolves howl down the hills, 

And hearts are quenched with dread 

For the maidens snatched by Beg and Bey, 
And the babes v/ho faint for bread. 



WARTIME 45 



I. M. 

WILLIAM A. SHEDD 

WHEN he had fathered a wan host 
To kindly hands and sheltering hearts, 
He laid his weary body down 
Upon a Red Cross cart. 

He gave his gift of years and toil, 

Stayed not when he had paid the price. 

He laid his weary body down; 

His strong soul ran to Paradise. 

Ah, all too swiftly sped that soul, 

Too eager for one earth-glance fleet. 

We dare not mourn when he is glad. 

And when his man-task was complete. 



A MOTHER'S PRAYER 

OGod, if only Thou would'st lean 
Into this fire of hell. 
And take my tender little ones, 
My heart could cease its knell! 
I can endure the wearying ways. 
The scourgings and the flame. 
Their tiny bodies are too frail. 
Brand on my breast, Thy Name! 



46 PERSIAN PICTURES 

AT SALMAS AFTER THE MASSACRE OF THE 

MEN 

DIG the trench both wide and deep. 
See how many have fallen asleep — 
Fallen asleep in agony. 

Cover them, poor maimed things! 

Dig the trench with aching heart. 

Soul and body were tortured apart. 
Now they rest from their agony. 

Cover them, poor maimed things ! 

Dig the trench! The mad women come 

To find their men who came not home. 

Would they might rest from their agony ! 

Weep for them, poor maimed things ! 



TODAY 

BLACK is the eye, 
Red is the cheek, 
White is the soul 
Of Shirin. 

Fire is the heart, 
Crimson the hand, 
Dark is the soul 

Of Mahmud. 



WARTIME 47 



Black is the sky, 
Stony the trail, 
Grey is the rain. 
Today. 



YESTERDAY AND TODAY 

WHEN Alexander led his hordes, 
A-trampling East and East; 
The cries of brides and little ones, 
Smote the godling, at his feast. 

When warriors of Sassanian day 

(Now rock-hewn) held S almas, 

Nestorians fled their generous plains, 
Or fell before the pass. 

When Hulaku swept provinces 

Into his saddle-bags ; 
Gardens were red and vultures filled. 

And gibbered heart-torn hags. 

Now Kurd and Turk and power-mad Hun 
Shake those age-weary ways, 

And quench their thirst in new life blood, 
Like lords of old dead days. 



48 PERSIAN PICTURES 

NEAR BAGHDAD 

(An old mountain woman at the refugee camp is 
interrogated.) 

<<TT THERE do you come from, mother?" 

Vv "From the mountains where free men are 
born, 
Where the pastures of summer touch heaven, 
And the air is always at morn/* 

"Mine eyes ache with this flat lowland, 

I need not bread or seed-grain, 
I die for the peaks of Kurdistan. 

Perhaps they can still my pain." 

"Where are you going, mother.^" 

"To Tiari, made by the Lord. 
I would go on by knees for a year of days, 

By camel track, mule trail and ford." 

"My throat loathes Diala water, 

I need mine own again, 
I die for the springs of Kurdistan, 

Perhaps they can still my pain." 

"But your stalwart sons, dear mother.''" 

"My sons no more will come in. 
They fell beside our Malik, 

I'm an empty churning skin." 

"My heart burns in this drear lowland 

I need my lambs again, 
I die for Tiari's pastures. 

They only can still my pain." 



WARTIME 49 



MY SISTER! 

(■ <'\/'OUR hair was charcoal, it's cotton white !' 

i "Know you not my man is gone? 
He was slain on the bloody Jewish Hill, 
In the grey of a winter dawn." 

"Your cheeks? They are strangely graven?" 
"They are graven by grief and fear. 

Asiat girl was found by the Beg, 

Would she were on her bier !" 

"O where is the light of your eyes?" 

"Gone as I tried to pierce through 

The rain of tears to fold on my breast, 

My shrivelled babe — six — like two." 



HOW THE CONSUL WENT TO URMI 

THE Kurds had overswept the plain 
Of Urmi-by-the-Sea, 
And in our yards, a massacre 
Held horrid revelry. 

The Kurds had overswept the plain. 

The governor held some 
As hostages or prisoners. 

The Consul cried "Men, come!" 



60 PERSIAN PICTURES 

And so we dared a hundred deaths 
And found the road to pain. 

We followed the flag to Urmi, 
To Urmi-of-the-Plain. 

Tabriz to Sharif Khana, 

We crawled on Russian rails: 
Then went along on petrol. 

(Pood, twenty, was the sale!) 

We slept upon a mosque porch, 

Way out in No Man's Land. 

'Twixt lake and hills rode at us, 
A Kurdish outpost band. 

We'd pushed through sand toward Salmas. 

The car leaped like a plane, 
Swift shots sang ugly warning. 

Our wheels beat swift refrain. 

At Diliraan, we halted 

For permit to pass through. 
Five days we parleyed Simko 

And guileful Persian, too. 

At last! (Our hearts grew haggard.) 
We found the road again. 

Was there a living Christian 

On Urmi's blood-bought plain? 

We climbed the pass. Night horsemen 
Cried "Back! A fight's on there!" 

We trailed a rough dry river — 
Was treachery our fare? 



WARTIME 51 

We passed dead, war-worn hamlets, 

To Kara Hassani, 
And waited till tlie Sirdar 

Saw Kurd and Irani. 

He brought the sad glad tidings, 

Six hundred friends were saved, 

The Consul might now enter — 

To hazard what he'd braved. 

TVe dared a hundred divers deaths. 

And found the road to pain. 
We followed the flag to Urmi, 

To Urmi-of-the-Plain! 



THE REMNANT 

Six hundred were crouched in court and room, 
In the governor's palace. There — 

With blasting bloody memories. 

Nakedness, wounds, dull care. 

The Counsul came like an angel 

From God's own once blue skies. 

To still the pain of aching souls. 
Quicken dead lips and eyes. 

There was nothing left on the face of earth 

But broken homes and tears. 
There was nothing left in women's hearts 

But madness, death and fears. 



52 PERSIAN PICTURES 

Now^ surely^ God had remembered 

His children of the plain- 
Perhaps death's orgy neared an end, 

He had sent life, again! 

Six hundred were crouched in court and room. 
In the governor's palace. There — 

With blasting bloody memories, 

Nakedness, wounds, dull care. 



HOW THE CONSUL BROUGHT OUT THE SIX 
HUNDRED 

The Consul went to Urmi, 

To Urmi-of-the-Plain. 
He brought with him six hundred. 

When he came out again. 

The Consul made a clear demand: 

"The remnant must go free — * 

Six hundred, safe from Urmi, go — 
No force, no treachery." 

By days of patient parleying. 

The victory was won, 
(Stone hearts were flesh when His hand touched), 

And freedom's march begun. 

A tense, slow movement through the streets, 

Past myriad smouldering eyes. 
Past close-clenched rifles, daggers keen — 

First, two men brave and wise. 



WARTIME 53 

The broken remnant, almost free, 

Trudged on for thirteen miles. 

The Consul plodded last of all, 
To hold the weakest files. 

Six hundred gained the lakeport, 

By fading sun, pale moon; 
Six hundred reached Tabriz, — thanks to 

The Consul and God's boon! 

The Consul went to Urm'i, 

To Urmi-of-the-Plain. 
He brought with him six hundred. 

When he came out again. 



CHRIST IN URMI 
I. 

THEY say that Urmi knows the Christ no more. 
Our Urmi, little smiling patterned plain. 
That quenched her thirst from great white Kurdish 
peaks, 
And gave us gardened fruits, rice, grapes and 
grain. 

Christ walks not by the Baranduz when morn 
Paints alpen-glow across the snowy hills. 

Nor speaks with herd boys as they drowse among 

Their cattle through hot noons, long white and 
still? 



64 PERSIAN PICTURES 

In shining vineyards with us He would toil, 

As He had toiled a thousand goodly years, 

For He's the Vine and we the branches slim, 

He does not leave a vineyard dug in tears. 

He loved our lake so heavenly blue and salt — 

He's loved lakes since He walked Tiberias' Sea — 

St. Thomas walked our sapphire lake, one day, 
And brought Christ unto Urmi, gloriously. 

Yet, first of all, the Wise Man brought the Babe, 

The Babe divine that drew his seeking soul — 

His dust lies in Mart Maryam, in the crypt. 

His heart has knov/n the joy of a won goal. 

II. 

We cannot see Him, now. His witnesses 

Have walked the bloody way and gone to God, 

Or eat a bitter bread in alien lands. 

Or die in bonds that make soul stuff, a clod. 

A fragrant Presence fills the patient void. 

More sweet than holy chant or incensed prayer. 

It moves across the pregnant martyred plain. 

And bears a quiet brooding witness, there. 

He breathes upon dim flickering hearts — 

They know not that it is for Him, they wait. 

For Him the Lord of Persia and the World, 

For Him, not for the attared drug of fate. 



Caravan Songs 



55 



CARAVANSONGS 67 



IN THE CARAVANSERAI 

THE caravanserai is choked 
With humps and heads and packs, 
Loose mouths lip up the dry chopped straw, 

At ease the weary backs. 
The gutteral calls of camel men 

And shouts of slim tea boys, 
Weave in with torch and endless tale, 
To make the evening joys. 



ON THE SEIR ROAD 

THE camels have been on the hills 
To feast. (Such camel-thorn!) 
With stately shamble crowd the road. 
We'll be tired out by morn! 

The caravanserai awaits 

With rope and burly pack. 

And soon they'll ding-dong through the gate. 
We know what humps our backs! 

The city moat, the gardens fade. 

The open plain is best 
With stars and camel bells to sing. 

Who knows our nightly quest? 



58 PERSIAN PICTURES 

AT SUNSET 

jnp«IS sunset J and the caravan begins 

X To spell her mellow music to the stars. 
The stately stepping line with swaying heads, 

Flows black across the plain^ in cadence far. 

The din of the rude khan is changed for peace, 

The tangled streets, bazaars for plenteous 
space — 

And I fold round my spirit with her robe 
Of lustral evening grace. 



THE CARAVAN IN THE STORM 

A dusky splotch upon the waste! 
Close-huddled camel forms! 
(The humped-up packs lean awkwardly, 
With stately heads down-drawn.) 

The shaggy camel-men crouch low. 
Blend with their shaggy troop, 

Along the patient leeward side. 

And watch the lightnings swoop. 

They know the winds of these wide plains, 
Their cloud-bursts, buffetings, 

And with sea-wisdom make all taut, 
Wait Allah's signalling. 



CARAVANSONGS 59 



OF CARAVANS 
I. 



THE caravans link day with day, 
As they feel across the plain. 
From dusk to dawn they rhythm along, 
To their tink-de-le-dong refrain. 

And I would I knew their ancient song 
Of dim bazaar and khan, 

Of camel-thorn on tawny hills. 
And tracks to Hamadan. 

Yet these are not the golden strands 
Of their full-throated din. 

I hear of brigands, dagger cries. 

And midnight tramps with djinn; 

Of velvet skies all mellowed sheen. 
And brim to brim with stars; 

Of truant worlds, on August nights — 
They flash like scimitars ! 



II. 



The caravans link land with land 

Across the roof of the world: 

Old Chinistan with Turkistan, 
Old Gulistan — Iran. 



60 PERSIAN PICTURES 



And as they link up race with race. 

They link up age .with age : 
They bind the Shah to the ancient Khan, 

Ihn Sina to latest sage. 

And I have heard they link our earth 

To heaven^ night by night ; 
As their old bell voices touch the sky, 

And the stars lean down with their light. 



BY GOD'S CLEAR PLOTTED STARS 

THE stars flash out, and space is luminous, 
Heat-stricken day has passed — 
Its glare and dust, in the deep wells of night, 
Are drowned at last. 

The stars gleam bright, and camel-bells begin 

Their travel songs, high, baritone and bass. 

Gaunt silhouettes step ghostlike cross the plain, 
With slow and rhythmic pace. 

The stars shine on. The swaying caravan 

Moves forward to the tune of answering bells. 

The nodding drivers dream of Samarkand, 

The leader, finds the track, the hour tells — 
By God's clear plotted stars. 



CARAVANSONGS 61 



THE JULFA ROAD 

(In Autumn) 

NO stately swinging caravans 
Step down the Julfa Road, 
With sugar, oil and calico 

And bell tunes for their load ! 

Across the Aras where women flung 
Their babes in mad despair, 

The road runs south by pass and plain, 
To the Gate of Kurdeshahar. 

No pied herds on the plains. 

No wheat upon the hills. 
No raisins in the vineyards. 

Silent, the droning mills. 

The buffalo pools are empty. 

The houses are broken and bare; 

Hunger and Kurd and typhus have supped 
On the flesh of the poor folk, there. 

No stately swinging caravans 

Step down the Julfa Road, 

With sugar, oil and calico 

And bell tunes for their load ! 



62 PERSIAN PICTURES 

AGELESS RHYTHMS 

THE soul of man, wood, brass and string 
Weave a surpassing wonder thing 
That marches us where men are made, 
And wings us sunward, unafraid. 

A shepherd's pipe in Thessaly, 

Calls out the very heart of me; 
A bearded moujik's minor strain 

Sums up earth's uttermost of pain. 

The tar picks out its tinkling tune, 

To teach us Layli and Ma j nun. 
The ram's horn wails forth blasts of doom. 

Shakes crooked streets, mud roofs, white room. 

The camel-bells sing timeless songs 

Of rhythmic nights, star sprinkled, long. 

Bokhara, Khiva, Samarkand, 

I greet you all above Mar and. 

Libraries, poets, sages, khans 

Of ancient Persia — Turkistan, 
Your crumbling walls and camel-strings 

Now send us magic carpetings. 

Your treble, basso, minor bells 

Make melodies too strange to spell. 

Their ageless rhythms do not die. 

But weave tlieir earth rhyme with the sky — 
And the spirits of caravan-men. 



CARAVANSONGS 63 



A JOURNEY SONG 

I slept a space within a village crude, 
Quiet simple folk — a handful — dwelt therein. 
I felt the cramping of the thick mud walls, 

The unconscious lives that straitly hemmed me in. 

Then strange bell voices came from out the night, 
The caravan called to the hamlet, me. 

And touched us with the life of many climes. 

Of empires old and young and yet to be. 



LAST NIGHT 

LAST night, my soul was cadenced to the slow 
Sure gutteral rhythm of caravans that go 
Across unending moon-bleached plains — their rhyme. 
Coeval with the birth of dimmest time. 



TODAY 

TODAY, I'll fly upon a stallion white, 
A stallion sired in hidden tents of Nejd; 
Then clasp my fragrant silvered water-pipe, 
And dream old tales before Mohammed bred. 



64 PERSIAN PICTURES 



ANCIENT TRAILS OF TRAFFIC 

DOWN ancient trails of traffic, 
The shaggy camels swing. 
As in the days of Tamerlane, 

Their wandering bell-songs ring. 

The shadow of holy Ararat, 

Follows them through the night, 
And blesses them with her miracle, 

As dawn becomes new light. 

They splash across the Arras 

And climb the Tabriz road. 

By Shah Abbas' ruined khan. 

Where camel-ghosts unload. 

They breast the pass, where yesterday, 
Machine guns echoed death, 

Where bearded Cossack and wild-eyed Kurd 
Stole each other's breath. 

The stately bell-tones seem to toll 

Those fierce hearts passing on 

To a PLACE more passionately loved 
Than Kurdistan or the Don. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

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